| Sunny Side Up March 10, 2004 �2004, Kathleen Gibson The Best is Yet to Be My mother turns eighty-five this week. She's as sharp as her finest needle. But for the last fifteen years she's endured constant, chronic pain. Mom's had one hip replacement; now the second needs it. She suffers from a fifteen year-old case of shingles that has become post-herpetic neuralgia, severe arthritis that keeps her bed-ridden much of the time, and a fall that dislocated one shoulder, which never recovered. Her other shoulder couldn't do the work of both and gave out too. When Mom wants to move a hand across a table or around someone's waist to give them a hug, she uses her fingers to pull the arm along. They crawl like a spider. It looks rather funny, and sometimes she giggles. I'm glad she sees the sunny side. I don't know that I could, in her place. I'm so proud of my mother, making the best she can of the remnant of her health, staying so optimistic. But it hurts to watch her, and sometimes I complain to the Master Universe Planner: You got it backwards. We should be born old. Crabbed, wizened. Then gradually get younger. Stronger, smarter, cuter. And more loved, until people squabble over who gets to take us home and care for us. And we should have the privilege of skipping the teenage years entirely. I then go on to remind him that my mother lived her life for others and deserves to enjoy her remaining days free of pain and trouble. Then God reminds me that he's preparing a place for her to do just that. He's right, as usual. But as my father says, "There's a lot more iron ore in these golden years than there is gold." Old age reminds me of birth. I had two babies of my own, and the awesome privilege of helping others birth theirs. There's a moment - sometimes strings of moments - when women giving birth think those last pushes will kill them. But the joy of birthing a new life transcends the pain, every time. I see that in the weathered faces of my most senior friends who love Jesus. They're bearing down for what must come - the labor pains that accompany the journey out of the narrow canal of life on earth. There are flashes of the humor and personality I know so well, but their vision is of necessity narrowed to only the work at hand - the last push, and finally the weary eagerness to emerge from pain as heaven's freshest arrivals. They land in God's palm, my Bible says, my tired, aged friends; their spirits still slippery-damp with the tears of those who loved them, sat through their nights, mopped their brows, and finally watched them slip away. I can only imagine heaven's delivery room� Angels shout, "Strike up the band�.it's the one we've been preparing for!" Eagerly the Father brushes away earth's dust and ashes. Laughs and says, "Welcome home, baby. Well done. Your best is yet to be!" You can respond to this column at [email protected] |
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